


Arctic Radar

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, Knitting, Schmoop, West Wing Title Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-03
Updated: 2008-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:24:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knew there were lots of things he still didn't know about Dean. The past two and a half years had been full of startling revelations, and this was possibly the most startling of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arctic Radar

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [**the West Wing title project**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/1487052.html). All Mousapelli's fault. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.

The thing about hunting was that there was a lot of downtime, a lot of hurry-up and wait--for the sun to set, for the moon to be in the seventh house, for the people in the apartment to leave so they could break in--and over the years, they'd each developed their own ways to combat the boredom of sitting around and waiting to kill things: Sam generally chose reading, and Dean generally chose disrupting Sam's reading.

So as they sat in the car, waiting for the Farbers to leave so they could take care of the poltergeist that had been haunting the house, Sam tried to concentrate on the biography of John Adams he'd been trying to read for the past two years, but part of his attention was always given to keeping an eye on Dean and bracing for whatever distraction he'd come up with next.

Dean fidgeted a little--he was never good at sitting still when their lives weren't actually on the line, especially in enclosed spaces--and then muttered, "Ah, fuck it," and reached over the back of the front seat to rummage around underneath. He came up with a black tote bag and settled it on the seat in between them; reaching inside, he drew out a pair of knitting needles and a long, orange and yellow striped scarf.

"Don't say a word, Sammy."

"Dean--"

Dean glared at him. "Not a word."

Sam knew there were lots of things he still didn't know about Dean. The past two and a half years had been full of startling revelations, and this was possibly the most startling of all.

"But, Dean--"

"Her name was Lupe Garza," Dean said, "and she was _hot_." As if that ended the conversation. Well, for Dean it probably did.

Sam turned back to his book, the oddly comforting click-click of the needles fading into the background.

*

Dean had always been good with his hands, and easily bored, so knitting was a godsend, as far as Sam was concerned. It kept him occupied and out of Sam's hair. He knitted gun cozies for their weapons, scarves and hats for Bobby and Ellen, and, for one memorable three month period, a blanket for the front seat, so that they didn't get mud or blood all over the upholstery (and to keep the seat warm on cold nights, but Dean didn't mention that, and Sam liked it enough not to point it out, just in case Dean decided to stop using it in a fit of overblown manliness).

*

Sam thought Dean's knitting habit was adorable, and he never let an opportunity to needle him pass. Dean, of course, found his own freaky method of revenge.

The scarf was first. He presented it to Sam with such sincere glee that Sam couldn't do anything but wrap (and wrap and wrap--the thing was as tall as he was) it around his neck. The orange and yellow stripes made him feel like Ronald McDonald, but the scarf was surprisingly soft and it kept him warm, so he wore it with a smile.

The hat was next. Sam wasn't generally a hat kind of guy, but then, he'd never guessed Dean was a knitting kind of guy, so he could make an exception. He didn't even cut the orange and white pompom off the top of the ski cap, because Dean looked so _proud_ when he figured out how to attach it.

He wondered, sometimes, when he saw Dean picking out skeins of yarn at Wal-Mart, if Dean were actually colorblind, but when he pointed out that green and purple was kind of a weird combination, Dean looked at him like he was the crazy one.

"Dude, the Joker wears green and purple."

"Yeah, but I don't think we're supposed to be using him as a fashion model."

"Pfft. Whatever, man. If it's good enough for Jack, it's good enough for you."

Which was how he wound up with the green and purple striped sweater. He pulled it on and forced a smile, and Dean clapped him on the shoulder, laughing.

"Looks good, Sammy. Like the Incredible Hulk, except this yarn is stretchy enough that it wouldn't shred if you happened to sprout a few muscles."

*

Sam was grateful for the warm weather, because it meant he didn't have to wear any of the collection of garishly colored sweaters, scarves or hats he was rapidly accumulating.

But summer inevitably gave way to fall, and Dean started asking things like, "Where's your hat? It's cold, Sam, and you know you lose ninety percent of your body heat through your head." So Sam had to pull on the orange hat and the striped scarf and bear looking like an idiot.

On a particularly chilly October morning, Dean produced a pair of yellow mittens with a vomit-green stripe around the second knuckle, and tossed them at Sam as they left the motel room. It was the last straw.

"Okay, Dean, I appreciate the mittens, I really do, but I'm a big boy now, and I think I'm allowed to have fingers for my gloves."

Dean gave him a look that was both hurt and superior. He took the mittens back and shoved his hands into them, then fiddled with the palms. Sam heard the sound of Velcro pulling apart, and then the top of the mitten flipped back, revealing fingerless gloves.

"They're glomitts," Dean said, as if that explained everything, "but if you don't want them...."

"No, no, I do," Sam said, and he wasn't even sure he was lying. He snatched the gloves off Dean's hands and pulled them onto his own. They were warm and functional.

"Awesome. And see this little loop here?" Dean said, pointing to a small yellow loop on the inside of Sam's wrist. "We can attach them to your coat so you don't lose them."

Sam sighed and resigned himself to his fate.

end

~*~


End file.
